Hades

What do I need to do to get what I want? What do I want? I... What do I want? I feel driven toward... what? Art? For certain. Philosophy? It seems more and more to be a drive. A poet philosopher? A philosopher poet? I am the incarnation of transference. I want to transfer my ideas to others. I want to transfer my vision to others. I want to transfer my self to others. I want to carry myself across into others so I never die, in mind or material. I have a strong sex drive. I feel a drive to make art. I feel a drive to philosophize. I am ruled by the madness of Eros and the Muses. As Socrates says in Phaedrus, philosophy comes from the Muses of Astronomy – and thus of the sciences – and of epic poetry. How many more Muses can I combine? What drive is that, to merge the Muses, make them one? And what of Eros? That I have far fewer visitations from. Well, that’s not true. He seems to visit me while neglecting those he has helped me fall in love with. Where is Aphrodite when I need her? The two need to team up with each other when it comes to me, so Eros doesn’t continue to drive me mad, as he’s driven me mad before.

How many have been guided to Hades by Eros? And how many were brought back up by the Muses? Ah, the Muses, who have helped me maintain my madness in a more productive way than when I was driven into Hades by Eros. Did he guide or drive me? The way up and the way down are the same. He drove me by guiding me there. And the Muses carried me up, out of the dark pit Eros brought me to. And yet, I miss the madness of Eros. I am lonely for Eros, for the chemicals my body emits with the repeated long touch of someone, that make me feel warm. Lovely chocolate has helped me through the early and worst parts, but now I feel chocolate is hardly substitute. I have tried substitutes, and none compare or can even add up to in any way to two nude bodies embraced in pleasure, as Eros and Aphrodite mean for us to be. I can only control Eros so much, for so long, before I feel more and more like giving in. Abstinence is not moderation – I am not interested in asceticism. There is no virtue in that. Yet I have shown that I have virtue enough to not give in as much as my drives desire – but where is the balance? I want a war between overindulgence and asceticism that will bring a balance of Eros in my life. I want a return to a life of erotic play. Only then can I not drown in the obsession of Eros, so I can spend more time and drive with the Muses.

Can I chose my madness, or have those who make us mad chosen me? Eros chose me, of that I am certain. The Muses have certainly chosen me. The madness of initiation? To what have I or need I be initiated into to require Dionysus? Nor do I think I have the madness of prophesy – so Apollo too has not chosen me. Eros and the Muses – those two have been enough and seem to be sufficient. I chose the madness of Eros. Only one of these who rule over madness is not enough to make us take the complete trip to and through and out of Hades. Does it take one to drive us there, another to free us? And how often is it Eros or Aphrodite who drive us there? Dante said it was Virgil who led him through Hell, but it was his love for Beatrice that drove him there. Odysseus even went to Hades so he could get home to his wife. And Orpheus, the most beautiful singer and poet in Greek myth, went down to Hades to bring back his beloved Eurydice. I too was driven into Hades by a woman – each time I was driven there. But it was the Muses who, again, brought me back, though my weeping and wails fed Hades well.

But why speak of traveling to Hades and being brought up by art? These myths are part of our deep archetypes and have gone on to become cliches. Among some people, anyway. But in a real sense, they can never become cliches, because we are always forever forgetting their lessons. We keep telling stories of descents into Hades because we forget the old ones, and feel we need to retell them using our own myths – this is what renews the stories. This is why the stories of Orestes and Dante are both so interesting and so different. Cliches are those things we say that we know and never forget. Romance books are all cliches. True novels never are. We all live chiched lives, those lives that are forgettable because they are so easily remembered. An uncliched life is lived in such a way that we cannot forget it, though we inevitably forget the lessons it could have taught us. This is the soul of great art, and why we come at it anew each time. Artists live such lives that would seem new each time through, sometimes in their actual lives, and always in the lives of their art. This is the mark of a true artist, and why a true artist can never, himself, know if he really is a true artist – and among readers, viewers, listeners of the works there will always be endless debate about their value, level of value, reasons for their value. So I cannot say that I myself am or will ever be one of these artists – yet I feel the call of the Muses. I feel their call, and can never know if I have or will ever measure up. And yet, I serve under their rule. And I chose to serve, though the Muses have equally chosen me. It is healthier to chose one’s fate – rejecting it can lead one into sorrow or madness of the worst kind. But it is a fate that is indeed chooseable. Fate, like the world, is not deterministic. By choosing to abide by the rule of the Muses, I have chosen to try to measure up to that choice. It is a great honor to be chosen by the Muses, and it requires much work to live up to that honor.

Ah, the likelihood of life. We do not know that for which any of us are chosen. I started off with the certainty I would become a scientist. I majored in molecular biology in college and worked on a Master’s degree in molecular biology for two years. And then Eros drove me mad, and the Muses brought me back. And now I am a poet because I cannot stop writing poetry. I am a short story writer because I cannot stop writing short stories. I am a novelist because I cannot stop writing novels. I am a lover of beauty because beauty called me forth to reproduce it in art. I am a lover of the arts, especially of literature, because the arts are the beautiful creations of the mind of man, and as such are the most beautiful of objects, more beautiful even than their creators. And, once the doors of perception are cleansed, we will see the world as it truly is: beautiful. This is what I was able to see by descending into the depths – I was able to see beauty in all its manifestations, to understand the beautiful nature of the world, and that drove me to want to make it more beautiful by adding more beauty to it, deepening and complexifying the beauty of the world. The tragedy is that there is no certainty that it will last – or that anything will last. In the end, will we all be swallowed up in the sun’s expansion? And even personally, will my work survive beyond my life? Will my genetic material? At the moment, my work looks to be the likeliest candidate for a kind of immortality. But I will take it – my work can pass my energy on into the future, and I will not complain. My work is myself at the moment of creation. It is a gift I hope is worthy of giving. I have had a difficult time getting others to accept my gifts. Perhaps they are not (yet? I hope) worthy of being given. Yet, I will continue to offer them.

Perhaps calling my work a gift seems narcissistic? There is a reason the narcissus is holy to Hades. It is narcissistic to believe that the gift of art we who have been to Hades have received should then be passed on, through us, to others. It is narcissistic to believe that anyone should care how we view the world, what we think, or what we feel. Yet that is the role of every teacher: every teacher has proclaimed that they have knowledge that you should have, and that they should teach it to you. The artist too is a teacher, as is the philosopher, and the preacher too. Who am I to offer a gift? The gift has first been given to me – and now I must, now I am compelled to give it to others. I have taken on the role of teaching others of the gift of beauty through the works that I am compelled to create. It is the gift of me that I hope others will take – my art if not my body. The drive given me by the Muses, even if no one will allow me to fulfill the drive given me by Eros. Are the Muses enough? I hope they are, and fear they are not. Eros will have to be placated, or other trips to Hades could occur – will the Muses always be able to rescue me?